Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1)

by Lee Cooper

  “You can have this cunt, you've dropped him once, do it again.” Filled with a fresh determination, I returned to eyeball the beast as he stood waiting for me, the same impassive stare.

  “Time, gentlemen.”

  My temper began to unravel, I wanted this cunt decapitated in the quickest way possible. Now we both had the same brutal mind-set.

  Approaching him with my hands down, he threw the same, vicious stiff jab. Me slipping it, then coiling a right-hook across his head, switched my left leg across the front of his body, thudding an uppercut into the base of his chin, pinging his head into the air, then sunk my knuckles into his lips, tearing them open.

  The first flow of blood. I didn’t stop there, clenching my fist tight, a left then a right-hook slammed across his jaw, loud slaps rebounded through the room as I made contact. He was hurt, I now had to punish him before he recovered.

  Stunned, a full-power, low kick bent his knee, bringing his head down level. I head-butted him again, this time into his teeth, then stabbed my knee into his solar plexus. Slumped to the floor, it should have meant the round was over.

  Taking a deep gasp of air made him choke, spitting out a mixture of blood and teeth at my feet. Lifting his Barbarian head up to me, a new found fury lurked in his eyeballs.

  The hesitation of glaring at his collection of broken teeth, could’ve been spent pounding his face in. Re-screwing my boxing brain on, swinging my right-hook from my ear, The Reaper knew what was on the way, ducking under, evading my hook and using his right leg to stand. Three right hands rebounded off my nose, falling over onto my forearm, then kicked in the ribs by his size fourteen boot.

  Looking up at his black shorts, muscle sculpted around his calves and thighs, I felt like a midget. He hacked up the blood in his airways, then spat it over my body, bringing with it fragments of teeth.

  Standing over me, he sneered in disrespect as if I was nobody. The Reaper took his usual stance in the middle, leaking from his lips and mouth. The crowd exchanging bets on each round, noise reaching a crescendo as they cheered The Reaper. He didn’t care, though.

  “Time.”

  My face ached with bone-to-bone impact, stomach and ribs in agony, the reality of the fight taking hold of me, rather than the adrenaline. The ‘roids were helping, flooding my muscles with the blood and needed rage. The Reaper, full of the same drug, knew how much men like us needed it.

  He wouldn’t stop until I was dead, or he could no longer breathe, simple as that. My face oozed with pent-up fury. Blood from our lips ran down our chins, eyes bruised and bodies drenched in sweat. Tim rehydrating me, while I burned stares across the room, showing I wasn't to be intimidated.

  By the time the next round started, I was in the place I needed to be. The place that feels no pain, the place where demons lie, awaiting their wakening. I could now blank the crowd, tunnel-vision like, I had to show this cunt who the real beast was.

  He waited for me on his spot, this time head-first into the assault, but I was gathering anger, fueled by thoughts in putting this fucker down.

  Sticking my head in front of him, mauling punches from side-to-side on his face, the thud of each impact reverberating up my arms. Then, it happened. For the first time, I saw his body language change. A look dawned of frustration. That was a turning-point.

  After pounding on his head, I bolted body-shots into his ribs, all my body-weight twisting into each strike, howling in blind rage from the depths of my soul with each blow. Dipping his weight down with the force of my attack, leaning into my body to stop the onslaught.

  Stepping back willingly, his weight falling, pouncing a right uppercut into his already fat, burst lip. An unrelenting thirty second surge of savageness. Filled with fury, my heart beating fast with the impact of a church bell, the cold night forgotten, as the sweat ran off my hair, merging with my own flow of blood.

  Looking shaken, continuing my assault, a massive right-hook ricocheted against his chin. This was it. Swaying from his shoulders down, I saw my opportunity. Using my left hand to hold the back of his monstrous traps, gripping tight, stabbing the pointed knuckles of my right hand into his windpipe.

  Collapsing onto both knees, he dropped to his side in panic. Holding his throat with both shovel hands, gasping for that intake of breath. With less than a minute to rise, roles reversed, I chose to stand over him, admiring my own work. Thirty seconds left, the strength flowed from his body. The alarm in his face unrecognizable.

  I noticed disbelief on Gallagher’s face as he rose from his seat, never having witnessed The Reaper suffer so much. Mr Dean’s body language only changed as his hands came out his duffle-coat pockets. Ten seconds left to stand, the relief evident, Reaper was able to suck in air. Devastated, he raised from the ground. What do I have to do to stop this monster?

  “Time.”

  This was my chance to finish it. Still recovering, his body and brain registering the lack of oxygen. His eyes still held the look of surprise and shock. Ignoring all caution, swiftly moving back into the depths of Hell, my right hand tensed, winding up to end it. The Reaper coming to life, or maybe surviving on instinct, used the momentum of my stride to crash his fist into my face, like a wrecking-ball smashing into a building.

  I could barely stand, strength drained, stuttering to the left like a drunk searching for a perch to lean on, I ended up on the ground in the shadow of the London Ghetto Gang. All senses abandoned me, crawling on the floor like a child, searching for an exit, a gate to the other side. Forty seconds passed before my vision returned, when I glimpsed Tim mouthing words, gesturing for me to stand. The Reaper came into sight then I knew, knew I had to stand. Couldn’t let myself down, my Dad down. “On your feet, Joe”. A shout of ten seconds from the timekeeper. Somehow my brain got a message to my legs to stand.

  “Time.”

  Rising, I saw the colossal force of the Barbarian charge right at me. I only had instinct left, my brain unable to relay messages to my body. Still confused, almost concussed, The Reaper saw me weak again, saw his money and his glory there for the taking.

  My mouth dry, legs unsettled, head battered and beaten with blood flowing from my freshly cut left eye, the next assault on the way. His every stride forward pounded in my ears, almost seeing him in slow-motion. Quietened, the audience could smell the end. Fate was about to be sealed, he suspected I was finished.

  Remembering what my Father said. “You could be the best boy, but you’re too weak!” Roaring in a horrific rage, The Reaper threw punches like a pinball machine. Tucking my elbows into my ribs, folding my arms over my head, I took his barrage of violence. Trying to strike anywhere he could, still grunting like an animal with every blow. With my wrists touching my temples, leaving a gap between my guard exposed, again he used his right elbow, in an upwards motion to the base of my nose, the impact cracking and crunching the cartilage and bone.

  Taking a step back, I momentarily dropped my hands, seeing fragments of my nose hover under my eye, letting the blood leak into my mouth, I ran my tongue across my bottom lip. His facial features squinted, dumbfounded that what stood before him couldn’t be broken like a nose. Wanting only victory, willing to die before this beast got my name on his CV.

  The quiet tension in the air changed, spectators grudgingly admiring the show.

  Again he came, with more bombs. I absorbed it all, tucking into my shell. It hurt making me step back, grunting when struck, winching with pain. Kicking me in the legs, pulling my head down, planting his knee into my gut. Trying to head-butt and use his elbows.

  He tried it all, nothing I could do. Keeping out of the way and protected, letting him tire out. My body ached from head to toe, bleeding out and legs heavy, taking it all.

  The Reaper breathed too much, sweating heavily from his activity, and warmth from the lights over-heated him. It was near. My mouth dry, I only needed time. After the constant onslaught of attack for several minutes without my response, he tired.

  Mentally stunned, never
having been in a duel this long, or confronted by a man willing to die before him, he arrived at his breaking-point. His building anger mixed with frustration, causing him to cease his attack, he prowled around my shell, analysing his prey like an animal in battle. Angered, dishonoured, confused, his emotions were now on show.

  I had waited long enough, suffered too much pain in my life. His workman-like style now wilted. Dropping my hands, I smiled cheekily into his surprised face. Part of his lip hung to the side from my earlier blow, covered in crusty blood. His right eye burst, like his mental state.

  Feinting a punch with my left hand, he flinched, leaving himself open to a storm of unreturned punishment. Still standing but weakened, his ribs and solar plexus were next. Burying my head into his chest, rattling his ribs from side-to-side, planting my feet, twisting my whole body into every punch. Kneeing into his ribs and guts, the impact breaking a couple of them in the process. I growled, I roared. He still stood. Legs begging to give way, I wasn’t finished.

  His busted body slumped, signaling the end was close. The sneaky fucker coiled from his right side, bringing with it a right hand, clattering it across my jaw. The power of the punch, sickening, hanging me on the edge again, and a high-pitched whine silenced my ear-drums.

  Facing Gallagher and his men, dots of yellow and purple floated. My mind playing tricks, catching a glimpse of my Father of how he would look now, perched up against the wall.

  The force of the punch left Reaper bent over in exhaustion. Some ten seconds passed, Reaper wrecked, on both knees. He looked up, lip hanging off the side of his mouth, eyes battered, half-closed, showing no self-pity and no beg for mercy.

  Cupping his chin, gore from my nose dripping onto his cheeks, blood from his split-lip glistened under the light and flowed down my left hand. I lifted my right hand in the air, bent at the elbow and unleashed every last drop of hatred from my entire soul, delivering with only death in my mind. The beaten Barbarian’s body plunged to the ground, still breathing. Lifting my right boot, I stamped on his face, until the demon was dead.

  Chapter 66

  Remorseful:

  Reaper’s body still lay on the ground, covered over with a bloody coat. Sitting upright against the manky wall, Tim by my side, directly opposite the corpse. A collection of bodies still lingered in the basement. Holding the cash filled me with no joy. There was no feeling of achievement. Bringing a man to his death with my bare hands, beating him until his pulse ceased. I was remorseful, full of self-pity, the guilt of my actions. Taking a life I could never take back. Crouched up against the wall for the past hour, left me shaking uncontrollably from the impact of the event. Sitting there the realisation of what I’d turned into, sunk in. My Father, the one man I loathed to the depths of my soul, and I’d turned into him. The endless hunt for his throat and bitterness over the past spiraled out of control, turning me into the callous, horrible man. The vision of him at the end of the fight was an ironic reality.

  “Tim, get me a smoke and a drink.” Tim sprung up, dealing with my request. He was in shock, too. He saw this as his doing, his vision of me back in the ring. Did he regret it? I think we both did.

  Reaper’s body lay untouched for more than an hour. Gallagher's squad argued what to do with the corpse. No one took time to speak to me, except Tim and Bull.

  Mr Dean left after a heavy argument with Gallagher. Gallagher had a piece in his coat, willing to use it. Mr Dean probably saved my life that night, reassuring Gallagher if he shot me, an all-out war between the two camps would begin. The Reaper knew the risks in this game all too well, taking the lives of two men before.

  “Here’s your smoke mate, lit it for you, a hip flask as well.” Tim had a habit of continuing with life no matter what happened in front of him. In distress as I was, but it didn’t show in his act.

  “Cheers.” No taste for conversation. The oval, stainless-steel hip flask full to the brim. Opening it, downing the lot, sensing every drop burn down my throat, an instant calm, it steadied my nerves.

  I needed to get out of here, couldn’t stay in the same room as the corpse of a man I killed. Not possible to leave, until I spoke to Mr Dean. The smoke was sucked dry, looking for that extra something to take the edge off. Agony in my body was forgotten for that hour, the fact that I just killed someone took precedence.

  “We need to get out of here, can’t sit here forever.” Tim said.

  “Can’t...I’ve got one more thing to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Get Steve over here.” Never informed Tim of the last matter at hand. The room now emptying, leaving only the criminals conducting the arms-deal.

  Mr Dean came walking over. Feeling the need to stand to talk to him. From my bruised calves to my bruised forehead, everywhere ached as I had sat down for over an hour. “Well done Joe, well done. Pity about The Reaper.” A cold response to his death, but a normal thing in his everyday life. Mr Dean got his wish, one of his men ended the reign of The Reaper

  I thought about responding to his comment about the Reaper, but coldly as it sounds, I had other things on my mind. “Midnight? Where?” I had no time to mess around.

  “Inside the fabrication shed.” Mr Dean replied.

  “And you’ll be there? You need to give me that piece.”

  “Aye, I’ll be there. I left it under Tim’s passenger seat.” Once again Tim looking confused about what we were talking about. Mr Dean walked away, I’d see him later.

  “OK, what’s going on now?” Getting annoyed I was holding something from him.

  “Nothing you need to know. When this deal’s going down, wait in the car, alright?”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask questions Tim, just wait in the fuckin’ car.” Telling by the firmness of my voice I was deadly serious, he complied.

  “Aye, alright ‘en. I’ll wait in the car when the time comes.” He looked miffed, but I couldn’t tell him anything for his own safety.

  “Right, I’m heading out for some air.”

  Walking out the alcove archway, Tim spoke. “There’s drink in the boot, mate.” The long aching walk up the tunnel made me contemplate what I was prepared to do next. The pain in my body felt like I’d been in a head on collision with a tank.

  Chapter 67

  The Eidolon:

  Steve Dean, Lukas, Bobby Munroe, The Govan Gang and six members of the London Ghetto Gang and myself all waited patiently in the open space of the dimly-lit fabrication-shed for The Eidolon and his weapons.

  They were known for their punctuality and precision when conducting deals, there was little doubt The Eidolon and his stable would be a no-show. I glanced at my phone, seven missed calls and three unreturned text messages from Magill. The Eidolon’s appearances at exchanges were scarce, but his presence was expected this evening. The meeting set up by Jack Gallagher who was still attending to the corpse. I stood behind Bobby Munroe, a short, fat, ruthless bastard from Glasgow. Been causing trouble since he was able to walk. In the game for the simple fact he loved to break rules, cause hardship and kill people for fun. A complete psycho who couldn’t be argued with. Years of psychological damage, there was no hope for him. Looking at him, and hearing the stories, was enough to send me further to changing my ways. I didn’t want to end up like him, and there was every possibility I could.

  The only man here that would interrupt my plan.

  A vehicle approaching. Bobby Munroe, opened the wide roller-door, lifting it just high enough for the Sprinter van to reverse in, closing the door behind him.

  The driver reversed ten metres into the shed, switched off the ignition, and then killed the lights. The front of the van sat in the dark, too hard to see the men inside. The gathering of crooks stepped round to the rear of the rusty van, awaiting the back doors to be opened. Situated behind the pack, just to the right, looking onto the driver’s door, waiting for a body to a step out.

  Sliding the front of my t-shirt up, grabbing my Glock 35 pistol. The anticipation of
pulling the trigger, sent my legs into a trauma-like shake. Mr Dean kept an eye on me, one of two men aware of my plan. Flicking the safety off as I slid it out, hiding it behind my back, one step closer.

  My face pure white and nose looking like someone walking off a battle-ground, hardly able to stand on my own feet. My body ached from the impact of The Reaper’s wrath, but I had to, this was my chance.

  Only seconds away from witnessing the sight of my Father, sat inside the van, The Eidolon, my finger ready to send a bullet into his brain. The van-doors opened simultaneously, two men stepped out into the poorly-lit area. The light shone brighter behind the van. The driver stepped out, dressed all in black with a shoulder patched jumper and combat trousers, a full-face balaclava on, too short to be Dad, must be the passenger.

  Rounding the pack of men for a better view of the passenger arriving at the rear. My hand took a tighter the grip of the Glock, prepared to pull the trigger. Wearing a balaclava as well, it wasn't him. Again, too short. Disappointment swirled through my head. I was told by Mr Dean he would be here. Still, the back doors hadn’t been opened, he could be inside with the shipment. I prepared myself for the bullet again.

  Mr Dean keeping a close eye on me, as loyal to me as I was to him, he was prepared to back me up if need be. The passenger and driver blocked the view inside the van after opening the doors. They moved to the side, the hand behind my back came round to my hip. Only the custom-built crates of arms lay in the back stacked two high, three back. The gun retracted, then slide down my back, out of view. I was devastated, I was informed that he’d be here. The longing, the desperation I had to kill the bastard wouldn’t be fulfilled.

  The intensity of the situation made even Mr Dean take a deep breath of relief. The plan we discussed was for me to fire the gun, with him and Lukas on standby, to counteract any responses made by The Stable, or Bobby Munroe. Once killing him, I had no idea what the next move would be. The aching longing to end his life, outplayed anything else.